


A Field of Blue

by myadamantiumheart



Series: Three Fires Burning [2]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Multi, Rimming, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-24
Updated: 2017-11-05
Packaged: 2018-12-19 07:54:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11893335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myadamantiumheart/pseuds/myadamantiumheart
Summary: Bucky and Clint set off across the continent on their grand road trip towards Kate. They end up making more stops than they'd planned to. Natasha is not surprised.





	1. A Girl and Her Truck

**Author's Note:**

> And this fuck-fest of an AU continues. For Jules, as always.

She finds them on their third stop, three days into the road trip out on a dirt road after they’d asked FRIDAY to route them through campsites for the next two nights. They're filling up the car at a one pump gas station when a dusty old 4runner truck rattles up next to them, and a very familiar woman leans out of the driver’s side window. Her hair is pulled back in a messy bun, artfully disheveled like Natasha had tried to look less put together for once in her life. 

“You boys know the way to the nearest campground?” She asks them, and Clint feels like his grin might split his face in two. 

“Matter of fact, we might,” Bucky drawls, leaning up against the pump, his favorite act of bravado, a great facade that does not even remotely hide the fact he will drop to his knees the minute she asks it of him. 

“Good,” Natasha says, blowing him an exaggerated kiss and winking at Clint. “S’pose I’ll just follow you there, then.” 

“Did you tell her where we were gonna be?” Clint asks Bucky when they’re back in the van, leaning his forehead against the cool glass of the window and watching Natasha’s truck billow dust on the road behind them. She rides their ass on purpose, tailgating Bucky just to make the bigger man laugh. Bucky glances at him after a minute, cocking one eyebrow. 

“You think anyone needs to tell her anything?” he says, reaching a hand over to rest heavy and comforting on Clint’s thigh. It’s true. Natasha probably has chips implanted in their arms at this point. Or she just looked at Clint’s bank statements again, and extrapolated that they were heading North again, because Bucky always talks about wanting to go through the Grand Tetons and Yellowstone. Or, even simpler, she just asked FRIDAY. The last seems most probable, because Natasha loves smoke and mirrors but she also loves efficiency. 

The campground they’re staying at is empty when they arrive, save a camp host who looks to be about 95 years old and grins toothlessly at them through the ranger’s station window. 

“It’s fifteen for a night,” the man says, and hands them a parking permit with a campsite number written on it in shaky green ink. Bucky hands him thirty.

“The truck’s with us too,” he jerks a finger over his shoulder at Natasha, who’s making faces at Clint in the rearview mirror. The old man just smiles at them, takes the thirty dollars, and waves them on.

“I’ll just bet she is,” he says as they’re pulling away. Bucky laughs the whole way to the camp site. They didn’t really bring any camping materials- a camp stove, some food, propane, a flashlight. There are blankets in the back of the van, and the seats fold down so that they can sleep in there if they want. All things considered, Clint figured that any camp he and Bucky might set up would be vastly better than the holes he’s been forced to hide in before. Natasha, though, pulls out a whole box of firewood and starter and immediately starts lighting things on fire. 

“I wouldn’t want you to get cold,” is the first thing she says when Clint sidles up to her, scuffing the heels of his boots in the dirt. They’re a good ways out in the woods, here. The camp host put them on the farthest point of the campground loop, about a mile out, and Clint can already tell the stargazing is going to be incredible. She lets him hook a hand around her waist, though, and pull her closer, kiss her cheek hello. 

“Did you bring any other food?” he asks, hopefully, thinking about the fact that he and Bucky had basically just bought ten cans of chili, two loaves of french bread, and a sack of apples at the last store. Natasha scoffs, pinching his arm and slapping him away from her. 

“Who do you think I am?” she says, bending to poke at the fire with a stick, well on its way to roaring flames. “Go check the truck.” And he loves her, oh he loves her so much because the entire passenger seat of the truck is these two bulging grocery bags (reusable, of course, Natasha once told him they make excellent improvised garottes) full of food. His favorite candy, and those jiffy pop pans you toast over the flame, potatoes and cheese and Natasha’s guilty pleasure: donuts. There are actual vegetables and fruit in there, too, and plastic utensils. 

“You are a goddess amongst men,” Bucky says, from right behind Clint, peering over his shoulder at the bountiful harvest their Demeter brought them. 

“That’s nice,” Natasha says, her voice almost carefully bored. “Check the glove compartment too. Clint does. He opens the glove compartment and-

“Did you stuff this glove compartment full of sex toys?” Bucky asks her, half-turning, a grin dripping mischief spreading across his stubbled face. Natasha shrugs, but she can’t quite hide her grin either. 

“It’s not the glove compartment that’s gonna be stuffed full of sex toys soon enough,” Natasha says. They both turn on Clint like wolves stalking a wounded deer, and he can’t help his shiver. 

“We’re in the woods,” he says plaintively, like that will make any difference. Like he wasn’t hoping this was where the evening was going as soon as Natasha rolled up beside them at that gas station. Like he isn’t absolutely weak for the two of them. Bucky just slaps his ass and shoves him out of the way so he can grab the food and get started on dinner. Both of them ignore his weak attempt at protest. 

He can live with it. 

“What will you do when you get to Kate?” she asks him an hour later, the two of them sitting next to the fire and watching Bucky cook. His first instinct is to say that he’ll apologize- but he doesn’t know what he’d be apologizing for. He’s already said sorry for most of the things that a sorry would fix. The other things aren’t his to apologize for, and they aren’t his to heal. That’s part of the reason why it was better for Kate to leave in the first place. 

“I think hug her,” Clint says, pressing the side of his thigh into Natasha’s. “I miss her.” She hums like that’s the right answer, wrapping her hand around his wrist and rubbing her thumb along the carpal bones. They’re a little bit crooked, from all the times he’d accidentally and forcefully rearranged them. “It’s been awhile since both of us had something to be happy about.” 

“I hear you might run into America while you’re down there.” Natasha’s warmth is almost as overwhelming as the fire, and he’s sort of drowsy from contentment. He rests his temple on the top of her head and closes his eyes. 

“Katie isn’t very good at keeping secrets,” Bucky says as he makes his way around the campfire, setting plates in their laps and settling into his own chair. “We figured the two of them out by the second Instagram post.” Natasha’s laugh echoes among the trees. 

“None of these babies are spies,” she says fondly, shoving Clint back into his own camp chair so she can start in on her dinner. “No subtlety, no nuance. It is refreshing, in a way, to see all their emotions laid out without having to divine each one separately.”

“I like them that way,” Clint rips a bite off of the bread, toasty from the fire. “Sometimes it’s tiring to wonder what everyone around you thinks.” 

“There will always be spies around you, Clint,” Natasha tells him. “Precisely because we know you won’t bother us for our thoughts unless you truly care to hear them.”

“I can be a spy,” he says defensively, but Bucky just grins at him through the flames and the deepening shadows. 

“Yeah,” Bucky flings a baby carrot at him, narrowly missing his ear. “But you prefer fucking spies to being one.” Clint opens his mouth, loses his train of thought as Bucky bites his lip pointedly at him, and closes it. It’s true- and after all, what good is lying to the spies who have made him their bedfellow?

Spies do make the best bedfellows, though, in his opinion. It shouldn’t surprise anyone that he feels this way- his track record on relationships would clue even the more pea-brained detectives in on that particular preference. Maybe it’s because they’re often confident, self assured, in a way that Clint struggles to be anywhere but the battlefield. Maybe it’s because they read him so quickly it’s almost a magic trick. Maybe it’s because his entire career he’s trusted spies to watch his back in his most vulnerable moments of combat. Being a sniper and letting someone watch his blind spot. Being Hawkeye and letting someone catapult him into a dangerous, unknown situation. It’s not that much of a jump to let them take care of him in his most vulnerable moments outside of combat as well. 

They roast marshmallows on skewers, and Clint’s gets his fingers stuck together like that time Lucky burst a container of super glue all over his hands. (Don’t ask, he doesn’t know how it happened either.) The night is deep now, around ten o’clock, and the stars have flickered on like little lanterns floating in the velvety black above them. Bucky slides up behind him when he’s burning the last bits of marshmallow off the end of his skewer, standing in front of the fire, and wraps his arms around Clint’s chest. He grabs Clint’s free hand, the sticky one, and-

Oh. Well. There goes Clint’s skewer into the flames (luckily not one of the reusable ones.) He can feel Natasha’s eyes on them across the fire, her grin and her wolf-teeth, while Bucky sucks the candy-sweet residue off of his fingers. His face is hot beneath the two day stubble of laziness, and his other hand clutches uselessly back at Bucky’s soft henley, fingers grasping for something to anchor him. Bucky’s chuckle resonates deep in his throat, through Clint’s back, as he scrapes his teeth along Clint’s second knuckle and sucks hard, once twice three times, before letting his hand go. His breath is hot on Clint’s neck and his hand is bruisingly tight on Clint’s hip, and Natasha has crossed her legs like she does when she’s absolutely insufferably smug about something she’s witnessing. 

“I wanna get my mouth all over you,” Bucky says, directly into his ear. Clint fairly shudders right back into him, ticklish lightning right down his spine. His heart is beating audibly in his ears and he’s painfully aware of how little it takes for Bucky to get him going, these days. 

“Okay,” he says softly, mouth moving too slow and brain moving too fast. “Okay, yeah, let’s-”

They end up in the back of Natasha’s truck, climbing over the seats to all squeeze back there, with the back row folded down and the blankets they’d brought with them piled up in a soft nest. She sits cross legged with her back at the center console, tangling her fingers in and out of the knots on the velvet bag full of toys she’d brought. Clint doesn’t even bother to sit up, flopping right on his back as soon as they’re back there, because he knows how soon Bucky will push him right back down. Natasha’s free hand is in his hair by the time Bucky has crawled in with them. She tugs on it softly, then hard, switching it up until he’s rolling his neck to get closer to her and reaching out for Bucky like he needs something (someone) to blanket him, to hold him down.

“You’re such a needy brat,” Bucky says, stripping his henley off and leaving his white undershirt on. He swats Clint’s knees open, makes room to sit between his spread legs. “Clingy boy,” he murmurs, running a hand up his chest until Bucky can fit his hand loosely around Clint’s neck. Clint doesn’t even think about it- he just tilts his head back further, into Natasha’s tug, her fingernails scratching gently at his scalp. But Bucky doesn’t tighten his hand. He doesn’t move at all, actually, looks at Clint with dark eyes and drinks him in until the impatience in his gut is almost too much to bear. 

“Are you gonna do something, or-” he rasps, and Natasha yanks his head back tighter. 

“I might,” Bucky drawls, bending down. He unbuttons Clint’s flannel like he’s got all the time in the world, unzips his jeans and slides them down legs that tremble slightly with the river of adrenaline flowing through Clint’s veins. Clint’s undershirt stays behind, but gets shoved up far enough that Bucky can bite a line across his chest and leave cherry blossom bruises like a trail of bread crumbs. This is where Bucky claimed Clint, they say. This is where he reminded Clint that this softness, the tilt-shift bubble in which the three of them lay, belonged to them and them alone. Bucky runs his own fingers through Clint’s hair, disengaging Natasha gently, and he pushes on Clint’s shoulder until he rolls over. 

For a moment, he doesn’t know which way is up, because the soft blankness of the shadowed truck is dark enough that through his eyelids there are no pinpricks of light. He feels like he’s melting into the fire they’d set outside, into their arms, into their veins. Breathe in- against the blanket, the fleece one they stole off Steve’s couch. Breathe out- Natasha’s hand on the back of his neck, turning his head so his cheek presses into the bed of the truck and his eyes open to find hers watching him like she might eat him whole. Bucky’s teeth are sharp on his shoulder, and he bucks back into him without even thinking about it. 

“Jesus,” Clint breathes. He tries to reach back to grab- well, he doesn’t know what. Something. Some part of Bucky. It makes his muscles go weak, his stomach flutter, every time Bucky sets his teeth on him. But Bucky’s palm presses his wrist back into to the blanket. 

“Stay put,” he says, and Natasha sighs, the soft slide of fabric right up against Clint’s ear as she undoes the ribbon on her bag. Bucky laughs, his hips pressing Clint’s into the blankets. Shit, it feels good, and he gives in to the urge to squirm underneath the heavy weight. “Fuck, Tasha, did you think we weren’t gonna be able to do it for you?” Natasha tsks her tongue, and Clint can hear the sound of her smacking Bucky’s cheek gently like the crack of a gun through a forest. Everything feels extra right now. 

“No,” she sighs again, leaning back, the back of her knee pressing against the crown of Clint’s head and trapping him under her leg. He likes it a little too much. She unzips her jeans (he thinks, from what he can barely hear, vaguely grateful that he’d left his aids in) and Bucky makes a choked off sound. “I just wanted to watch you,” she says, before the faint click of something turning on, and the buzz of what is unmistakably a vibrator surrounds him. “And this one is my favorite,” Natasha adds, her free hand back on Clint’s cheek. 

“Okay, Commander,” Bucky says, but his bravado falls short under the weakness of his breath, and Clint can first-hand feel how hard he is. He bites Clint’s other shoulder soon after, though, and then Clint isn’t thinking so much about anything at all, really, besides what a fucking tease his boyfriend is. He wants to move, to find an solid point, but he can’t. He has to stay put. Well, he doesn’t have to, but Clint isn’t really the bratty one here, and he would very much like Bucky to get him off, and he has a feeling that won’t be happening if he doesn’t listen for once in his life. 

Bucky’s hands, both probably illegal weapons in all fifty states, are unfairly soft as they drag down his boxer briefs, drawing circles on the points of his hips. He won’t stop biting, little nips that make Clint huff against Natasha’s hand, and sucking those bruises Clint knows won’t go away for a week. They hurt, but they hurt like they’re supposed to. After a lifetime of pain, sometimes it’s cathartic to get to choose which ones he endures. And they add to the fact that Clint feels like he’s taffy. He can’t keep his eyes open and his cock is definitely leaking against the front of his underwear because Bucky didn’t bother to shove that down too and he knows that he’s making whiny little noises with every other bite. 

“You’re going to make him cry,” Natasha says after another few minutes of this, cool and conversational like she’s not squirming around on her vibrator two feet away. Bucky reaches out for her too, dragging a finger up the inside of her leg where Clint can just barely make out the bulge of the bright red vibe in her underwear, and pressing it against her clit for a few seconds. She gasps, she growls at him like she’s going to rip his throat out with her  _ teeth _ , and arches back against the seats. “You’re  _ such _ a little shit,” she breathes, moving her hips up against his hand, letting him press the vibe harder to her again. “But I don’t want to get off yet, I want to see Clint go first.” 

Oh, sometimes Natasha can be an  _ angel _ .

Bucky sighs, like he’s being put upon to get his god damned boyfriend off, and kneels up off of Clint for a second. “Fine,” Bucky says, pressing his grin into the small of Clint’s back, those shivery tingles running through the muscles of his legs. His hands surprise Clint, though why exactly he’s not sure. Perhaps it’s the syrupy nature of his body, the fact that Clint isn’t entirely certain he could hold any position in particular at this point anyway. He feels like honey in sunlight, and Bucky is the jar that contains him. Bucky’s hands drag him up by the hips, spreading his knees wide enough that he’s barely able to balance, and still Clint’s slow enough on the uptake that it surprises him when Bucky spreads him open and licks  _ directly _ across his hole. 

“Fuck,” he practically sobs, wheezing out a breath at the abruptness of sensation, and it’s like his brain zones back into the present all of a sudden. “Oh, okay,  _ oh- _ ” Natasha moans with him and Bucky is so smug, it’s radiating off of him, but Clint doesn’t care because the only personally and morally upsetting thing right now is the fact that Bucky isn’t eating him out all the goddamn time. He tries to push back against Bucky’s tongue but he doesn’t let him. Bucky’s too strong, and Clint is faltering too fast, panting into the blankets and wiggling anything that he can possibly move. It’s too good, the brief blessing of Bucky ducking down to lick the precome off his dick and then he knows Natasha probably brought lube but it’s almost more satisfying to have Bucky shove his thumb into Clint with the spit alone. Not like they’d fuck like that- because Clint likes pain but not that much and not in the middle of a road trip. But because he can feel himself clench down on that barest intrusion and he can feel the way Bucky is rubbing his own cock against the back of Clint’s leg, and he can feel the way Natasha is gasping for air at the sight of him helpless under Bucky. 

“You’re so easy for me, baby boy,” Bucky murmurs, biting and sucking and shoving his tongue in alongside his thumb. He is, he is, he is. He’s easy for Bucky and the rough twist of his nipple with cold metal fingers and the way Bucky fucks him dirty with his tongue so it’s audible how wet his ass is. 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Clint whines, begs for things he does not understand, presses his red-hot cheek to the fleece and tries not to come just yet. 

“He’s easy for anything in his ass,” Natasha breathes, her voice breaking halfway through the sentence as she flicks the switch on her vibrator up higher. “He’s easy for your mouth, or your fingers, or your cock- or both of ours at once, huh, what do you say, Clint?” He takes it back, Natasha is no angel. “I bet he’d be easy for this too,” she continues, like she doesn’t already know the answer, and tosses something next to his face on the blankets from inside of her bag. It’s a plug- the kind he’s thought about getting, silicone and heavy looking, red just like the rest of her toys. Bucky groans against him and slides his thumb out, spreading him wider with both hands and going in like he’s trying to make Clint black the fuck out with his tongue. And then Clint really does almost cry, because he feels like he’s burning from the inside out. Gets his forehead against the blankets and just breathes and whines and there are definite tears in his eyes and his muscles are all shaking by the time Bucky pulls back, wiping a hand across his mouth with the smuggest smile on his face. 

“Gimme the lube,” he gestures at Natasha, grabby hands and gravelly voice. She rummages around in her bag for a second before tossing it to him, arching her head back and looking down her nose at the two of them. Her thighs are trembling slightly too, and Clint knows, as much as he knows anything right now in a fog of endorphins and a haze of physical sensation, that she’s almost as close to coming as he is. Bucky opens it, the click of the bottle, and it’s so fucking cold on Clint’s ass that he fairly shrieks into his own fist. 

“Fuck,” he groans, pushing his ass back anyway because he can’t help it and it’s all true and he really is an easy slut for anything Bucky or Nat is gonna do to him. Bucky just laughs, like he always does, and snatches the plug from the blankets too. The tip of it pressing against his slick, oversensitized hole is almost too much. It’s the hint of pressure and it makes his cock jerk between his legs even though it’s absolutely nothing like relief. Every little bit that Bucky slides into him is worth another groan, another choked off breath, another whine. By the time it’s finally settled, the heavy weight of the base pressing against him, Clint thinks he’s going to shake apart at the seams. 

“Good boy,” Natasha purrs, and he sobs for that praise because it’s gasoline on the fire in his veins. Bucky pushes him down so gently, pressing him almost flat, and then his legs bracket Clint’s and his erection is pressed directly into Clint’s ass and those hands come down on either side of his shoulders. The first grind of his hips feels like being jostled for no reason, until Bucky adjusts a little downwards, and oh, fuck, oh my fucking god the plug is pressing every right spot Clint thinks he has, and rubbing his cock up against the damp boxers and he can’t move but he wants to buck back into it. 

“Please,” he says, so soft and plaintive that Natasha moans aloud for it. Bucky leans and bites the back of his neck again, holding him tightly there for a minute while he grinds even harder into Clint’s ass. 

“Yeah,” Bucky murmurs, letting him go, bracing himself further and fucking Clint into the truck bed. “Yeah, you can have it now, baby, you can have it.” Having Bucky pin his legs shut makes the plug feel even bigger (even better), and it’s rocking just enough, and he’s actually sobbing by the time Bucky slaps his ass and holds the back of his neck right over that bite mark and says, “Come for us, pretty baby, come on now, let us see.” His fingers hurt they clench so tight in the blankets and the fabric of Bucky’s discarded shirt, and he can’t breathe he’s coming so hard it’s hurting his ears almost with the force of it, and- Natasha comes too, her voice high and thin and beautiful in the back of his consciousness. 

“Oh, you were so good for us,” Bucky says, rolling him over after he lets him breathe a bit, come down a little. He’s so dazed, muscles aching like he’d run for miles, and it feels sharp but good the way the plug is still pressing everywhere just right in his ass. But Clint still reaches out for Bucky’s erection, for the wet spot on his underwear and the fact that he’s breathing heavily even as he coddles Clint in that unexpectedly soft way. 

“Oh no,” Natasha says, swatting Clint’s hand out of the way. “That’s gonna fuck me, now.” Clint just laughs (more like wheezes) and lets them grapple it out beside him until they’re all tired and sleepy and dozing off to the sound of a thousand crickets through the now-open windows of the truck. 

He spares a moment to be grateful that the camp host had given them the farthest campsite before he drifts off for the night. 

 


	2. Warmth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint tries (and fails) to get the upper hand. It results in what is essentially entirely porn.

Natasha leaves them two days later, a terse phone call dragging her away from them.

  
“I’ll see you in California,” she says, kissing both of his cheeks, and Clint lets her go, stumbling back through the midwestern mugginess towards the motel Bucky has picked. It’s actually nice, in a faded way- clearly at one point this had been the hub of activity in the tiny town. There’s a classy old bar at the front of the motel, and it reminds him a lot of the Red Star in Elko, where Clint had once gotten the best fried porkchop of his life. Bucky is waiting for him at the door to the room, surrounded by faded mint and coral paint and ivory interiors. He’s still half asleep, because Natasha insisted on leaving at 5:00 in the morning.

  
“She took my favorite henley,” Bucky says plaintively, but he’s not really all that upset. The motel door clicks shut behind them, and the room is a warm cocoon again.

  
“Back to bed?” Clint asks, and Bucky just wraps himself around Clint’s back and forces him to shuffle back towards the mattress. It’s surprisingly easy to fall asleep again. He dreams of another motel in the Midwest, where he’d stayed with Natasha a couple of years ago. The bed had been creaky, and in his dream he can’t see anything but a gauzy shadow past the silk scarf Natasha tied around his eyes. It’s not really a blindfold, more of a distraction to stop him from being able to catch up with her movements. His chest is stinging a little from the delicate scratch marks of the red fake nails she’d been wearing for the mission. His skin is burning overall because her legs are settled around his hips and she’s riding him so so so slowly, and he is begging her with every twist of his muscles for relief.

  
It feels like such a stupid and dangerous game they’re playing, undercover, when all he wants is to plead for her with her own name.

  
“Please,” is all he can say, but it’s enough for her to lean down and kiss his throat, her blood red lipgloss leaving cold prints behind, and hold his wrists so tight, and she-

  
“I brought you pancakes-“ Clint hears, instead of what she’d actually said, and then he’s blinking awake to the dimness of their room and Bucky standing over the bed with two plates from the continental breakfast. He looks down at Clint, really looks at him, and before Clint can wake up all the way he’s set the plates on the nightstand and he’s straddling Clint over the duvet.

  
“God, you’re easy,” Bucky says fondly, and Clint can feel his cheeks redden at that a little, but he just looks away.

  
“I have no idea- you said you brought pancakes?” He tries, two different deflections in one. Bucky grips his jaw gently, metal warmed by the breakfast plates, and turns him until their eyes meet.

  
“Hi, pretty baby,” Bucky murmurs, leaning in close. “You don’t need to be ashamed, let me take care of you.” And he rolls his hips down on Clint’s exceedingly obvious erection.

  
So maybe Clint can let him.

  
There, in the darkness of the room, he clings to Bucky and says his name like he was never able to when Nat used to play with him on missions. Bucky bites a purple mark into his hip and he bucks, whines, begs him for more. The pink skin left behind on his thigh when Bucky slaps it open stings so good, up his spine.

  
“Let me take care of you,” Bucky repeats, whispers into his stomach, before he slicks up fingers and presses them softly into Clint. It’s overwhelming, almost, thighs spread over Bucky’s legs and hands grasping for his wrists as he slowly works Clint open to the beat of his pounding heart. All he can hear when Bucky finally pushes his knees up by his head, stretching the limits of his legs, is their breathing. Two hands, different in texture, press down on the back of his thighs, right under the bend of his knee, and Bucky slowly, thoroughly takes him apart.

  
When Clint finally comes it lasts a lifetime, it seems, fingers tight in Bucky’s hair and nails scraping the back of his neck, head thrown back and mouth wide open like a silent scream for air.

  
“So,” Bucky says, after a few minutes of regaining their breath. “You want pancakes?” Clint just laughs and laughs and kisses his smile, and doesn’t miss Natasha too much, at least for a minute.  
He does, however, feel her presence a bit more tangibly than he’d imagined when they leave the hotel. While Bucky is packing the few things they’d managed to fling about (toiletries, pajamas, lube), he finds that Natasha had left them the velvet bag from her truck, and a note. Bucky doesn’t let Clint read it, but then again, he doesn’t really have to. Clint’s going to feel it either way.

  
“I’m driving,” he snags the keys, and Bucky lets him. They’re setting out for another bed, about four hundred miles west of this, in a bigger town with a real hotel that Bucky has a room booked in. The roads are long, and flat, and ultimately boring- but something about them compels Clint anyway. He likes the freedom of that wide open stretch. It makes his lizard-brain feel better, in a way, than a city street does. Sure, there are no clear vantage points and nowhere for him to hide. But in contrast that means no one else has a place to hide either. There are shoddy old barns and little roadside stands and miles and miles of corn.

  
Bucky tunes the radio between classic rock and an NPR member station until Clint can’t handle any more of Terry Gross, and he finally settles to a top 40 pop station that feels like bubble gum filling up their ears. He actually appreciates that kind of music. Good for jokes, good for keeping him somewhat young, and excellent for surprising Kate with. By the time they reach their hotel, it’s nearly the dinner hour, and Bucky has decided he wants a nap. Clint could also probably go for a nap (when wouldn’t he?) but something tells him- the Natasha in the back of his brain, maybe, that he should offer to unpack while Bucky sleeps.

  
The woman at the front desk smiles at them with preternaturally white, sharp looking teeth, and leans over the counter to tell them and this town is very progressive, you know, boys, there’s nothing to worry about here- she upgrades them from two queens to a king with a wink and a set of key cards slid across the fake marble. He appreciates it. He appreciates even more the fact that when he taps his fingers along the walls as they’re walking down the hallway towards their room, he can tell the soundproofing is actually half decent.

  
Bucky falls asleep almost instantly, a trick Clint never quite learned. Too many places where he wasn’t the strongest one. Too many nights waking up to breaking glass and shouting. But it serves him well, as does his pocket-Natasha, when he opens the suitcase’s smallest pocket and finds the note she’d left Bucky.

  
Oh, okay. So they thought they’d get the jump on him, huh? Clint’s not generally a competitive person- okay. Well. That’s a lie. A blatant, obvious lie. He is competitive. He’s currently got seven different bets going with different avengers and avengers-auxiliary support staff. It’s okay, it’s whatever. He just has a lot riding on whether or not Tony or Jane will get that next PHD first, and also whether or not he can tag Carol with more nerf darts first, and maybe also whether or not he and Sam can outmatch each other on Mario Kart. But it’s all just fun, you know? Except for the Legolas-Gimli style body count he and Natasha have going, wherein he is hopelessly outstripped because it’s less of a kill count and more of a body count, if you catch his drift. Like. Honeypot mission, you know? Anyway, Natasha is playing less than fair because she got Pepper to take Tony’s card and they went on a shopping spree at MAC and Clint didn’t know they made lipsticks that could actually redirect a human body’s blood flow south that quickly but apparently they do.

  
All this aside, the gist of the situation is that either Clint lets this one go and finds himself, sometime in the next eight hours, tied to that bed with Bucky playing a no-mercy game, or. Well. He takes the spirit of competition into the bedroom and assumes Natasha knew that if he found the note first, he was going to pull a quick switch on their positions. The red velvet bag is sitting at the bottom of the suitcase, separate from that note, and Clint pauses to wonder if Natasha really needs 20 extra AA batteries but, well. Who is he to judge? He got jerked off at a road stop two days ago. His count of “times I have been overly horny” is really on par with that at this point.

  
Bucky sleeps on his back, one hand under the pillow (the metal one, probably holding a knife) and one hand on his stomach. He never quite looks peaceful, per se, or innocent, but he does look like he trusts Clint to have his back, and that says more than most of his waking words have. It’s too bad Clint’s about to betray that trust. His clothes are left strewn on the room’s stiff armchair, and in only his boxers, he approaches the sleeping menace. He leans down and kisses Bucky’s forehead and he slips one of the leather cuffs (which, side note: red leather, Natasha? Really?) around his flesh and blood wrist and pulls it slowly up until he can hook it to the headboard.

  
It would be nice to say he pulls it off, but the truth is that by the time he has both arms tied back, sitting on Bucky’s stomach, Bucky is blinking up at him with amused, sleepy eyes.

  
“Well, good afternoon, Clinton,” Bucky says, raising his eyebrows like he’s got Absolutely No Clue why Clint would be doing this.

  
“Good afternoon, James,” Clint says, settling back a little so he can press his hands to Bucky’s frankly upsetting pecs. Honestly, fuck. He’s so unfairly built. It’s not like Clint doesn’t have any muscles, he knows that he’s got some pretty defined stuff going on here, especially for someone entering the era of age he is. But Bucky was literally put on illegal steroids of the mortality changing kind, and it shows. He’s like, the definition of beefcake, it’s incredible. And Clint gets to just- grope all of it. The whole thing. Wow.

  
“You still in there?” Bucky asks, laughter skirting the edges of his tone. Clint snaps back into it, reaching behind him to grab the bag he’d left on the edge of the bed, and glares accusingly at Bucky.

  
“I am, in fact, just contemplating the fact that apparently my trusted loved ones have been plotting to turn against me,” Clint says, shifting to grind directly down on Bucky’s dick, because above all the outrage and his desire to have the upper hand here, he is a brat. Bucky chokes a little on his breath, but his innocent facade doesn’t fade.

  
“Tony isn’t even here, so I don’t know how he’s supposed to turn against you,” Bucky shifts beneath him, spreading his thighs just slightly and forcing Clint to spread his legs with them. He smirks, the smug bastard he always is, and Clint shoves his hand into the bag, grabbing the one toy he’s not planning on ruining Bucky with.

  
“I guess if you want to be a smart ass,” he says, flicking open the cap of the line and pouring what is probably an excessive amount onto his fingers, “then I’m going to have to go it alone.”

  
At this point, it’s good he’d had the foresight to strip down, because it’s easy to shove his hand down the back of his boxers and arch his back and very very obviously shove a finger up his ass. It’s a little bit sore, probably because he’s been getting fucked on the more-than-regular this trip, and then bouncing along down shitty country roads. But secretly- or really not all that secretly- he likes it when it’s kinda sore. So. Bucky probably knows that too, from Clint’s incredibly obvious moan. it just feels good, with Bucky warm underneath him and his dick is definitely on the way to joining the party, and he can just tilt his head back a little and revel in the feeling. Bucky shifts underneath him again, jostling him so that his finger goes deeper quicker than he anticipated, and his shocked whine draws a huff of breath out of Bucky.

  
“C’mon, baby,” Bucky murmurs, soft and thick and molasses-dark. His voice sounds like the WAy morning sex feels, and Clint shivers once, resolutely not looking down at his boyfriend as he comes back with two fingers this time. Fuck, fuck, fuck. It’s good, obviously, because it’s not like Clint discovered he liked things up his ass when he and Bucky got together. Hell, he didn’t even discover it with Natasha. He’s been a slut for ass play his entire adult life, from discovering actual lube existed at 18 to discovering what it was for at 20. That’s why he’s got the plug Natasha put in the bag next to them on the bed. Because he wants to fuck with Bucky but he also wants his ass full of something, god damn it.

  
“You sure you don’t want help?” Bucky asks him, like he’s not increasingly hard beneath Clint just watching his face while he fingers himself. “I mean, you have cute long archer’s fingers, but-“ he wiggles his captive digits and his eyebrows simultaneously, and Clint rolls his eyes through the wave of heat that crashes in his stomach. It’s true- he’s not new to fingering himself, but fuck if Bucky is wrong. The angle is never quite as good on your own, and Bucky has fingers just as long as Clint’s but unfairly much thicker, and he knows just how to twist Clint up so that he can ruin him from the inside out.

  
“I’m good,” Clint says, sweat starting to bead on his forehead. The sound of his fingers and that frankly excessive amount of lube is obscene between them in the bed. It echoes, makes Bucky lick his lips in what is, to Clint, a direct attack on the integrity of his defenses. “I don’t need help from traitorous sell-outs.” He draws his hand out of his boxers, grabs the plug, and makes a show of pouring even more lube on the silicone.

  
“We’re gonna need new sheets,” Bucky is starting to sound a little dazed. Clint doesn’t blame him. He drags down his underwear just enough, and leans over to brace one hand on Bucky’s sternum. And okay, maybe he really exaggerates his face. He bites his lip really slow and scrunches up his nose and makes a desperate whiny sound directly into Bucky’s enraptured face as he slowly, slowly pushes the plug in.

  
“Christ, Clint,” Bucky chokes, when he sits back and settles himself, leaning so he can straddle one of Bucky’s thighs and rock a little bit, pushing against the base of the plug. It feels good. It feels really good, and he knows his chest has flushed pink and his face is sweaty and his hair is probably as much of a mess as it can be because he can’t stop compulsively running his clean hand through it.

  
“Did you need something?” He asks, as innocent as can be. Bucky jolts his thigh up, pressing the plug in deep, and Clint barely manages to contain himself.

  
“Yeah, baby,” Bucky rolls his neck a little, shifting his wrists. He really is being as patient as Clint can expect him to be, given that those cuffs would be less than paper if he wanted to rip them.“I need you to let me free, because the longer you keep me tied up the more you’re going to regret it.” God, it shouldn’t make him shudder and moan, that threat. But it does. Well, he already knew he was kinda fucked up.

  
“I don’t think I’m going to regret it,” he unties the drawstring of Bucky’s joggers. They’re loose, soft, easy to shove down, and Bucky is the kind of cocky asshole who rarely wears underwear beneath them. His stomach twitches under Clint’s palm. His dick twitches under Clint’s fingers, and he can’t help the smug smile. “I’m having a great time, here.”

  
“You could be having a better time,” Bucky’s voice has gone a little dangerous. It sets Clint’s nerves on edge in a good way. “But I suppose you like it when you’re in trouble, don’t you?”

  
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Clint wraps his hand around Bucky, pulls an asshole move and pours lube straight from the bottle onto the tip of his dick. The other man hisses, bares his teeth at Clint.

  
“You have no idea what Natasha told me, do you, pretty boy?” He leans his head back against the pillow, looks down his nose at Clint. “She didn’t write it all in the note. But she left that vibrator for a reason, and when you let me out of these, because you will, you’re going to understand why she has all those extra batteries.” Clint’s trying his best to ignore him, stroking him as slowly and loosely as possible, because it’s becoming abundantly clear that he may not have brain cells left to tease Bucky ever again after this. It feels a little like he’s lit a fire in the barn around him and now he’s just waiting to see how long he can survive before the structure collapses and burns him alive.

  
“I’ll make you a deal, though,” Bucky rolls his hips up into Clint’s hand, silently seeking more contact. He obliges without thinking about it, let’s the other man slowly fuck his hand. “If you let me go, I’ll let you come, at the end.”

  
“That’s not a very good deal,” Clint breathes, panting a little now with the fact that Bucky hasn’t stopped pressing his thigh up with his hips and Clint hasn’t stopped riding said thigh. The front of his underwear is wet, and the back of it is fucking soaked in lube, and shit, why is he so easy for playing games with dangerous people? “I could just come whenever you’re done, I know how to take care of myself. I could just leave and go jerk off in the bathroom right this minute.” He scratches his blunt nails down Bucky’s abs, and revels in the shocked moan that tears out of him.

  
“But you won’t,” Bucky smirks, teeth so predatory Clint can almost feel them on his skin already. “Because you’re a good boy, and I’m telling you now- you don’t get to come until I let you.”

  
It never fails to make him whine, to make him grasp for something to hold on to- that declaration of ownership that he knows, logically, he could disregard. But realistically? He can’t say no. It was a good run, he thinks to himself, but he’s going to have to let Bucky out eventually, and he’d rather not have to beg for too long for mercy.

  
“I want to make you come first,” he says, manages to breathe out, leaning down to kiss Bucky on the mouth for the first time all afternoon. “Please?” Bucky just laughs against his mouth, bites his lower lip so hard that Clint’s hips buck involuntarily. His grip tightens on Bucky’s dick, and the pace at which Bucky is fucking his hand increases marginally.

  
“How about you let me free, and I promise I’ll come in your ass?”

  
“Fuck you,” Bucky knows full well what that does to him- he can hardly breathe, fuck.

  
“I’m *about* to fuck you, pretty baby, whether you let me free or I rip these cuffs.”

  
“You wouldn’t,” he bluffs, shimmying his underwear off. “Natasha would kill you.”

  
“Natasha would blame you,” Bucky counters, which. Well. He’s right. Clint really could have just let him go already.  
It’s always disconcerting how fast Bucky can move- even hard as a rock, post nap Bucky. There seem to be hardly a few seconds between Clint flicking open the latch on the handcuffs and the blur of motion that finds him flat on his back underneath Bucky’s formidable muscles.

The plug jostles, paralyzing him with the pleasure of just- just the right angle, and. Bucky’s metal thumb drags across Clint’s throat, tilting his chin up, and fuck fuck fuCk that’s going to bruise but he still presses up into the bite Bucky leaves on his neck and whines desperately.

  
“God, you really are so soft,” Bucky laughs, biting his way down Clint’s chest and pressing his fingers into his thighs in ways that leave pink marks behind, like a trail leading up to Clint’s hips. “I’m sorry, you said you were a spy?”

  
“Shut the hell up,” Clint groans, but he still wraps his legs around Bucky and grips at his shoulders. “You’re my boyfriend, I don’t have to be an unturnable agent towards you.” Bucky gets one hand under his hip, and presses the other one down on his sternum, and laughs at him with wolf teeth.

  
“You might change your mind on that one,” he says, as he curls his fingers around the base of the plug and slowly, slowly pulls it out. Clint can barely breathe, arching his back, and he knows that he’s leaving little cuts all down Bucky’s flesh and blood shoulder from his fingernails. It suddenly occurs to him that perhaps he’d played directly into Natasha’s plan, and that all along it has been contingent on him making the first move. He’s going to buy her tea, next time he sees her. And probably eat her out, several many times. God, he’s in love with multiple evil geniuses.

  
“I thought you were gonna fuck me,” Clint snipes, cheeks glowing, and Bucky just raises an eyebrow, gets a hand under his knee, and twists. “Ah- fuck, shit, I am not that flexible-“ because his knee is over Bucky’s shoulder, but his other leg is still being held down flat on the bed by Bucky’s hand on his hip, and Jesus Christ that’s a stretch. It doesn’t seem to matter after a moment, though, because the minute Bucky presses slowly into him, he doesn’t care anymore. It’s just him and his boyfriend and his boyfriend’s quite honestly wonderful dick, and he’s begging before he knows it.

  
“So easy,” Bucky says, speeding up.  
Clint cannot reasonably disagree.  
Bucky comes first- probably because he refuses point blank to either touch Clint’s dick himself or let him touch anything that isn’t his shoulders. The minute Clint takes his hand off Bucky’s arm, he’ll stop. So he comes first, and Clint moans far too loudly at the feeling of him coming inside, and Bucky’s smirk is fair poisonous with how smug it is. He doesn’t pull out, either, just lets his leg down and settles in, his knees under Clint’s upper thighs.

  
“Don’t move your hands, baby,” he says, leaning down to kiss him once twice three times with those wolf teeth of his. “If you do, I’ll stop.”

  
And he rummages around in the bag, coming it with the vibrator, the little one that Clint had foolishly overlooked. His brain isn’t firing on all cylinders right now, so it seems excusable that it takes almost right up until Bucky takes the vibrator in his metal hand and presses the length of it to Clint’s cock before he figures out what’s about to happen. 

  
“Oh fuck-“ he says, with feeling, before he’s moaning in a high thin tone and rolling his hips up. He tries to remember not to let go of Bucky’s arms, it’s so much, it’s so much. The metal of his hand also vibrates with the little motor and it’s like his whole erection is surrounded by warm metal and vibrations that seem to shake him down to his bones.

  
“Come on, Clint,” he murmurs, his other hand playing idly with the skin of Clint’s hip. “Gonna be good, now? Got your bratty little power move out of your system? Be good and come for me, now.” It doesn’t take long- that thing is tearing him apart, and it almost hurts to come against it, still buzzing against his sensitive skin.

  
“Fuck the both of you, so much,” Clint finally breathes, after he’s able to move again. Bucky just laughs at him again, for the millionth time, and bends to kiss him soft and deep.

  
“You already do, baby,” he murmurs, pushing Clint’s sweaty hair back from his equally sweaty forehead.

  
“Yeah, I guess,” he grumbles, but he still takes Bucky’s offer of a shower, and he still lets Bucky wash his hair, and he still says, “I love you” into his mouth as they kiss against the cold tile.

  
The town around them isn’t very exciting, but it does have a little diner, which is Clint’s main attraction in any town. It advertises artery clogging burgers, and thick milkshakes, and that is the kind of danger Clint Barton can get behind. Bucky drives them there, though they could have walked, citing that it is in fact a vacation.

  
“Welcome to flavortown,” he says, as he opens the door of the diner for Clint. He can’t help but laugh.

  
“My god,” he slides into the sticky vinyl booth the hostess had pointed them towards. “You’re perfect.”

  
“I know,” Bucky says smugly over the top of his scuffed up laminated menu.

  
Everything feels warm.

 


End file.
